


Warm Welcome

by GoldenThreads, unrivaled_tapestry



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Homecoming, Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28702260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenThreads/pseuds/GoldenThreads, https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrivaled_tapestry/pseuds/unrivaled_tapestry
Summary: After a late night mission, Hubert returns to his bleak and lonely quarters only to find them oddly...full.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 14
Kudos: 187





	Warm Welcome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nuanta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuanta/gifts).



> A gift, for you, Nuanta. <3
> 
> Prose by Unrivaled, letters by Golden.
> 
> General cws for reptiles and Hubert-typical violence.

  


* * *

  


Hubert still wore a dead man’s blood on his shirt when he warped back to the lonely, earliest-morning corridors of the Imperial palace. Though the drenched spot wasn’t yet dry, it had soaked into the fabric and cooled stickily against the bony jut of his collarbone. He staggered but caught himself, boots thumping on ancient wooden floors as the remains of his warp spell drained from his fingers and clung to the floor. The uneasiness in his stomach was forced away with a grim swallow as he shouldered free from the sheet of dissipating miasma.

His arrival, a stumbling journey back to his rooms, was loud in the way everything was louder in the time of graverobbing and murder, or merely after all the palace servants had gone to sleep. Only every other lamp remained lit so late into the night, and he blinked against the brightness as every floorboard creaked.

He found his door and nearly let his pounding head fall into it as he began the very mundane process of searching around for his key.

He knew where it was, of course. The last thing he wanted was to be locked in mortal combat with some slithering assassin and draw a key instead of a blade. But a warp from such a distance always traded left for right and turned his stomach upside down, so he took a moment to feel around his pockets and sleeves for the right implement.

After producing the key, he fumbled his first couple attempts to place it, muttering as vile a curse as he could muster from a voice stuck in sludge. Brass ground against the old lock before finally letting Hubert inside.

He smelled stale tea the second he crossed the threshold, and somehow it quieted every visceral creak of the floor or crack of his bones.

Hubert could tell it was fresh, partly because every inch of his quarters had smelled like formaldehyde as recently as the previous night, and partly because he spied a cerulean teapot resting on the table in the breakfast nook only one person ever used.

Daring a glance into the open bedroom, he saw a shape on the bed, heard the sound of gentlest snoring, and the last shudder of tension fell from his shoulders.

Ferdinand had said he would wait up for Hubert, but Hubert absolved him of any obligation almost the second the promise was made. Hubert, of course, knew Ferdinand to be good for his word, but he did not seek to bind anyone to the peculiarities of his schedule, least of all when he left the palace with only the smallest hint as to where he was going. He was grateful for the goodbye kiss, but never expected Ferdinand to stay in his quarters past midnight.

Yet there he was.

A smile—small, dangerous, and forbidden—pulled at Hubert’s lips as he shuffled towards the tiled washroom.

A little green magelight illuminated the granite counter and full basin of water. Experimentally, he rested his icy palm on it and felt the warmth radiate up to his sore knuckle bones. It had been charged recently and laid out beside a set of fresh white towels.

But as he stepped in front of the basin to check his reflection, he saw—

—writing?

A torn piece of stationary had been stuck to the surface of the mirror with a little strip of rubber adhesive.

He reached up, plucked it off, and began to read.

_Raven mine,_

_If you are reading these words, then all my prayers are fulfilled and you have flown home to my arms at last. My apologies if those arms are wrapped around a pillow at present; I brought a book and a full teapot for my vigil most ardent, yet I fear the day’s nattering nobles took a grievous toll. My eyelids grow as heavy as my heart._

_Put yourself to rights and join me, my dear. The ghost of you pressed into this pillow is no substitute for your bones in truth. Warmer, perhaps? Yes, I have said it. I long even for the frigid brush of your toes against my ankles. Your head cradled upon my breast to hear its song._

_Come. Rest. Your reports will wait until morning. It may well be that Her Majesty commanded me to waylay you from these duties! Dare you prove me negligent in fulfilling my own mission most solemn? Wake me and draw the secret from my insufferably lonesome lips._

_They shall speak it as many times as you need: I love you._

_Was that not the question you asked? How strange, then, that it is the only thought in my head…_

_— Your ‘Frolicking Filly’_

_P.S. I must insist you stop using that one, actually, as a filly is specifically a female horse, and the alliterative value cannot trump the practical usage of the term. I await your improvement in the realm of equestrian appellation._

Hubert blinked dryness away from his weary eyes. Certainly a mood had overtaken Ferdinand tonight, sitting with his book and his pot of tea as the twirling arms of the clock struck down the hours.

With another illicit smile, Hubert carefully folded the leaflet in thirds and tucked it away safely at the far end of the counter. Once it was secured, he began to strip. First he took off his jacket and let it fall to the floor. Next went his vest, along with all the fine knives strapped along the sides and down the length of his arms—the Dagdan stiletto, the Enbarr-made switchblade at his wrist, the curved Almyran dagger, all were placed carefully alongside the bowl.

Only one of them had seen action that night. The stiletto did its job well after Hubert’s magic ran aground and left him cornered by a man who seemed to expect a spirited duel. He got a sharp rod of iron through the throat instead, the blade siphoning venous blood onto Hubert’s face and neck.

Off came the shoes, off came the shirt. Hubert winced as he pulled the stained cotton up and over his ribcage—nothing was broken, but surely he’d have a deep bruise there as early as the next morning. A mark Ferdinand would doubtlessly comment on before attempting to kiss it away. A foolish endeavor, lacking even a hint of faith.

But...that was Ferdinand’s way. It had been an act of bold optimism to pen a letter for a man who could have already lain dead, but that did not stop him. No, Ferdinand had rejected such an outcome even as his hopes bled out into every word along with the ink.

Hubert left his ruined clothes in a pile at the lion’s foot of the bronze tub, as if it had just come to life and maimed a man. He then began his quick, sleepy wash.

Water first to the face and then to the hair, a towel wet and run over every inch of his body that had come into contact with something wretched. The water was cold—it had been warm at some point, presumably, but Ferdinand wasn’t a miracle worker or even a mage. Not much blood had soaked through to his skin proper, but Hubert was sure that if he had proper light to study the rinse, he would see pink trailing down his skin. He ran it across his body and his hair, soaking away the stains, then took up the second towel to dry himself.

It wasn’t as good as a proper bath, but it was better than how he used to climb into bed and awaken with dried, clay-like flecks of dark red ground into his sheets.

He collected Ferdinand’s letter and stepped back into the dimly lit main room, trying to keep his vulnerable footsteps quiet.

However, he did not need to travel far, for at the far end of the space—right in the way of his path back to his dresser and bedroom—a square of red silk had been neatly folded. A tented piece of paper, seemingly with the same origins as the previous one, had been placed on top.

Hubert claimed it swiftly.

_My dreary darling,_

_Indulge me, will you? You deserve a sliver of comfort after such thankless service all through the night, and there is no comfort grand as a gown spun of Morfis silk. Simply try it tonight. (Tomorrow you may admit its superiority to your drab linen drawers.)_

_They say the moths feed on pure moonlight. Does that make you kin, lovely as you are beneath the stars?_

_— An Adoring Astronomer (and Purveyor of Fine Silks)_

After placing both letters on a side table, Hubert claimed the offering of silk. Experimentally, he let it unfold from his hands and fall through his fingers like water, and slide it did. It was cold in the way of clean clothes that had sat for some time awaiting their use. Comparing such a lovely thing to mercury seemed unfair, but as he watched the shining red unfold in the low light, it occurred to him that beautiful things were often poisonous.

But this had no deadly vapor, would not slip into an open cut to poison his blood. Instead, he detected the echoes of a warm body—pine, sweet hay that still sometimes clung to long hair after a trip to the stables, and lastly the faint smell of Ferdinand’s signature musk, a mixture that was half cologne and half a human body’s stale sweat.

It was true that Hubert didn’t seek out finery for himself, but he’d let his cheek brush against Ferdinand’s silk robes often enough, and his hand had drifted upwards under the hem while the other untied the slick belt. He associated this fine texture with Ferdinand and Ferdinand alone, something made for him to touch, but that he had no aspirations of wearing. Scratchy wool and cotton grew softer with time. Were Ferdinand awake, Hubert might have refused. _I have no need for silk,_ he might have said. _This is wasted on me,_ he might have thought.

Now, he draped it over his angles in acquiescence, let the back fall down his vertebrae and the sleeves find his shoulders with a tight static cling.

As he wrapped the belt into a sloppy but reverent knot, he had to admit that Morfis silk certainly lived up to its reputation. 

Onward he meandered to his food stores. A regrettable necessity. Failing to eat anything after exhausting his magic came with myriad risks to recovery, and despite that lingering lurch still gnawing at his stomach from the rough warp back, he found his kitchenette.

There, at the table where he often took breakfast, a white cotton napkin had been draped over one of the blue plates Ferdinand had so recently stocked his cabinets with. Next to it lay another letter.

_To the growling beast within,_

_Tend to yourself with this offering, oh ravenous stomach. Your owner keeps your feedings sparse and wanting, but I shall cherish you. A plum, a sweetroll, a heartfelt offering of charcuterie. Tarry here, fair creature, and glut yourself beyond his harshest measure._

_Need you a carrot upon a stick? Even the proudest stallion jaunts forth without such a bribe -- but for you, taskmaster, I shall propose a trade: every bite taken is a kiss you may claim from my lips._

_— Tomorrow’s Eager Buffet_

When Hubert relieved the napkin of its duty, he unveiled an assortment of foods beneath. As promised, a few slices of crumbly, smoky cheese sat next to three kinds of dry-cured meats. On one side rested a sweetroll with the glaze scraped off, and on the other a plum. A glass of water was placed to the side of the whole affair, and Hubert took an experimental sip to wet his gullet.

Hubert dutifully set about the task of consuming the solid food, starting with one of the thin slices of ham and chasing it with the cheese. He tasted salt and the distinctive tang of aged food, of a controlled rot. Still, his body responded even as his jaw ached. To pass the time, he reread Ferdinand’s letters. His mind chewed over words as his stomach accepted bite after bite. If he had a favorite, it would have been the plum, because all he could think about was the way Ferdinand looked when he’d bitten into a fresh one that morning, before they’d needed to leave and attend their official duties. Hubert still remembered the taste of it on Ferdinand’s lips, and as he chewed the flesh to a pulp and sucked at the succulent juices, he understood why Ferdinand had looked so delighted by the delivery.

He did not eat it all, though he made a valiant effort for his exhaustion and the state of his appetite, even with the promise of tonight’s feast becoming tomorrow’s gentle kisses. An effort had been made, but with half the plate consumed, it was clear Ferdinand had thoroughly outplayed him.

By the time he rose from the chair, his overworked muscles and bones rejected the act of standing. He pressed his fist into his lower back and leaned until some of the tension released.

His eyelids brutally drooped, but there was one more task to attend to before he could claim his night’s short solace.

He ambled towards a side room, as dimly lit as the rest. A pair of long glass cases on a side table were the first thing he saw, followed by a larger one that shared nearly half his height and contained the shades of a complicated network of driftwood and silk leaves. On the other end of the space—likely originally intended to be a large walk-in closet of some kind—the sound of sharp claws raking against stone echoed around a large metal tub.

Hubert reached for the clipboard he kept on a hook near the door. Instead of the familiar, sterile lines of his spreadsheet, he again encountered soft stationary and Ferdinand’s smooth script. 

_Minister of the Herpetological Household,_

_Water bowls: Refreshed. Found Dolofonia soaking in hers again. She did not appreciate the bath’s renewal._

_Humidity: Checked and adjusted per the register._

_Food: Left bean sprouts and melon for Sweet Potato. Briefly alarmed by what appeared to be a remaining roach in the Spatri enclosure, but was merely eerily desiccated droppings. They spite me. No other feedings due until Sunday evening._

_Affection: Hisstopher is a gentleman and returned my attentions with due respect. Mercutio continues to welcome my imminent demise. Six kisses to Sweet Potato._

_Success: Dolofonia allowed me to stroke her tail without offense._

_Failure: I left food and water aplenty, but a certain infuriating green-eyed Imperial Monitor still refuses to rest or accept any affection. Unsure how to investigate humidity from a distance. For now I will wait patiently for his elusive company._

_— An Avid Amateur_

Ignoring the wry smile that slipped onto his face—a product of his exhaustion, no more—Hubert swiftly flipped up Ferdinand’s letter to check the spreadsheet. Everything was in order, every relevant box filled out in Ferdinand’s most careful print. He returned to the front page to read the letter again, then flipped back to the spreadsheet.

As was often the case with pets, his small personal collection of reptiles needed to be fed whether he was tired or not. They did not shame him like a cat or whimper as a dog might—like Hubert himself, they declined to inform him when they were ill, or if something foul had landed in their water. He did not for one moment begrudge the task, but that Ferdinand had seen to Hubert’s responsibilities… Well. It inspired further affection, to put it lightly.

When Ferdinand inexplicably decided to regularly cohabitate in Hubert’s quarters, one of the first things Hubert elected to do was move any venomous roommates down to his lab proper, leaving only his prized monitors and a pair of rescues handed over to him by a subordinate whose brother’s friend had mistreated them, or so the story went.

Hubert had done his best to keep Ferdinand from needing to see the cold blooded beasts, had assured that he would never know they were there so long as he did not step into the side room.

Much to his surprise, Ferdinand kept asking about them. What did they each require for food? What is that one’s name? Why did Hubert spray their enclosures with water nearly every night? Eventually, he’d even begun following Hubert around the room in the evening, despite remaining wary of mechanically titled heads and beady eyes. “It makes sense that I should know how to take care of them,” Ferdinand had announced, and his study remained steadfast.

The answer to the second question gave Ferdinand deep offense. Hisstopher, the little wrapping Brigid python, and Sweet Potato, the small spined lizard, had been acquired in poor health and Hubert did not name deign to name them initially. Horrified, Ferdinand threatened to do the job himself if Hubert put it off another day longer. Sweet Potato was thus dubbed for the rugged Aegir yams that Ferdinand loved to roast over the fire, and Hisstopher began in jest. It quickly became reality when Hubert slipped up and used the title after two weeks of strict refusal.

Hubert swept the room for one final check. Sweet Potato was in his hide, watching Hubert pass by and tilting his head in answer. Hisstopher remained coiled in a bed of cypress mulch just as he had been in the morning when Hubert left. The three _spotted tree_ monitors (Hubert made a note to gently inform Ferdinand that he had misheard the name) were perched in three different places upon their branches, leaves, and slings. Only the male, Mercutio, acknowledged Hubert’s presence, his forked tongue flicking out to test the freshly misted air of his domain.

Dolofonia may as well have been a small wyvern compared to the spotted monitors. She was dense where they were slight, lightly banded where they were bright, and she hissed, snapping her massive jaws in warning, as Hubert approached and knelt beside her enclosure.

Hardly noble beasts, but Ferdinand nobly took to them regardless.

After reassuring himself that all was in order, Hubert whispered the lights down low and made at last for the bedroom. His sore body still complained, and the bruise over his side felt as though it was properly blooming, but the frantic, harried edge to his mind—the sensation that his brain was pushing against fine needles on the inside of his skull—had faded.

He stayed quiet as he crossed into the dark room. Gentle snoring, occasionally interspersed by an orator’s mumbling, called softly to Hubert’s ears where it calmed the last vicious traces of his night’s raggedy fear.

Ferdinand’s hair flared out on the pillow behind his shoulder blades. Both arms were wrapped so tightly around the third pillow that Hubert envied the closeness of the embrace.

Carefully, stealthily, he sat down on the edge of the bed. It creaked traitorously, but those lovely eyelids didn’t flutter open. However, perhaps due to a veteran’s subtle instincts, Ferdinand did shift in place. A snore turned to a heavy breath as he shrugged his shoulders, his grip on the pillow loosening.

That was when Hubert saw a scrap of torn yellow paper perched between Ferdinand’s fingers.

_Yours._

Nearly before Hubert had a chance to read the single word, Ferdinand instinctively reached for the leaflet as Hubert claimed it, his warm fingers brushing against Hubert’s as he did. Rheumy amber eyes opened just as he found the bone of Hubert’s wrist. He blinked, still half asleep, before tilting his head ever so slightly up, the most delicate smile curving his lips.

“You’re back,” he breathed out in relief and acknowledgement, voice thick with dreaming.

“I am.” Hubert leaned over, one hand going to Ferdinand’s forehead to pull a bright strand of marigold aside. His throat went needlessly dry. “I read your notes.”

At once Ferdinand brightened, making to sit up further. “You did?”

Hubert knelt down to meet him and quieted Ferdinand with a soft kiss. Letting his lover know that he was back, that he had survived the night, and that he was grateful for all that fate had lain on his undeserving table.

Ferdinand’s other hand came up to Hubert’s jaw, lazily pulling him closer as an otherwise silent room filled with the sound of sleepy kisses. A gentle hum left Ferdinand’s mouth and vibrated against Hubert’s lips, and Hubert tracked the comfort as it spread down his throat like a vulnerary, pulled him further down to sleep and cast off all doubt into the burning furnace.

“You’re wearing the robe.” Ferdinand tossed the pillow aside, making room for Hubert to slip under the covers and finally place his cheek to the molten core under Ferdinand’s clavicle. He smelled fresh pine and hay, stale cologne and the bodily sweat of a well-blanketed bed—the source of all that robe’s comfort.

“Hm,” Hubert said by way of admittance. “I ate as well.”

“You will have to cash in your winnings in the morning, I’m afraid,” Ferdinand answered.

“What of what we just shared?”

The following silent pause was broken only by the hush of Ferdinand’s fingers at Hubert’s cheek, then: “That was for coming home to me.”

Hubert was too tired to name the feeling that fluttered across his chest. His only answer was to grip more tightly at Ferdinand’s hip, to press his ear to Ferdinand’s hot breast hard enough that he heard the steady workings of ventricles underneath muscle and bone.

As Sleep finally came for his prize, one word floated helplessly across the surface of Hubert’s mind.

_Home._


End file.
